Grief Consumption


I don’t feel like it belongs to me.
But what can I call my own if not grief?

The cries leaving my chest simmer in my throat
I swallow hard
pushing them into the basin of my stomach.
The grief makes itself home
next to the French fries I ate alone in my car
parked down the street so my roommate wouldn’t see.
It shakes hands with the bottle of cheap champagne I drank last night,
together they make an excellent team.

I cry alone on the freeway to Bon Iver
simultaneously ridiculing myself and embracing the cliche.
My tears stream down my face as the dirty windshield frowns back at
me, begging to be washed.
What a waste of water, it scoffs.
Would it really be so bad if I crash? I reply.

Time slows as the tears begin to well and my vision blurs.

Finally, I blink.
“Pussy,” my grief murmurs from the pits of my stomach.

More alcohol down the hatch to drown it out.
Whiskey will do.
It surely lacks the class of my $10 champagne
but it was your favorite.

I shudder as I swallow but it goes down nonetheless
It has a job to do, after all.
You’d laugh at me for caring this much.
Move on.
More fuel for my flushed cheeks

No one told me there was a wrong way to grieve.
But I am all wrong wrong wrong.

I thought I saw you today.
I lifted my hand to wave,
excitement stamping out any sense of reality
I knew it!
You weren’t gone but had simply left for a walk.
Rounding the corner with your sunglasses on, headphones in.
You give me a big smile.
I always envied how white your teeth are.
But wait,
You would never wear those pants.
Flared jeans? Please.

I hear your giggle at the thought.
I chase it in circles around my brain knowing if I stop,
I’ll forget the sound.

But my legs and lungs are getting tired,
Won’t you slow down?